


The Theme of Care

by jossujb



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cruelty, Deathfic, Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, M/M, Mental Instability, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, mishmashed needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jossujb/pseuds/jossujb
Summary: The way the Doctor cried meant he cared - and that's the misery the Master has always wished for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is more like a personal work than anything else. Channeling my own traumas out through fanfiction and whatnot. Then again, I also really enjoy horrible stories of pain and misery laid upon my favourite characters, cos I'm evil like that.

Of course the Master didn't want to die, hasn't he made his whole persistent existence an art form? Time Lords sure live long, but no-one has evaded the limits like the Master. Why would he want to die, when the Doctor was still out there? He'd get off too easy if he just vanished, perished in the air. The Master had vowed he'd never let him forget what he did to him when they were young. Even if it… wasn't… _only_ his fault.

Regeneration was an icky business, though. It was a messy act, that always left emotions into a nerve-wrecking turmoil. You linear monkeys wouldn't understand! You're like… like… songs or something. Entire symphonies from the score to individual instruments. Whole bodies of work, so to say. Time Lords are nothing like that. A Time Lord is like a theme. Forever varied, always changed. Sometimes quiet like a _hum-hum-hum-_ hummed lullaby… or ever-growing _HIT-HIT-HIT-HIT_ of metal drums, but always, always recognizable. It's the same, but never finished, like you are.

Sometimes the Master longed for the finishing note.

But then he regenerated and started all over again. When the regenerations ran out he just found new venues to __keep-keep-keep-keep__ on going. Nothing was too hideous to consider. Every time the change had been more humiliating and the aftermath even more confusing. They say time is supposed to heal, but why then the Doctor's old indifference, his coldness in the past and his young arrogance just hurt him more now than it ever did before? It couldn't be just that they were old and alone.

Maybe it's because a Time Lord never really change deep down. Isn't that just ironic? Time Lord had the unfortunate reputation of being exactly as solid as a box full of kittens, but what do you do. But think about it, there's _no closure_. Ever. The Doctor might say he's grown up, that he's not so cruel anymore. But how could he get away of his theme, if the Master didn't get away from his?

And yet now he's dying, held in the Doctor's arms. _Sweet _.__ The Master had a perfect opportunity to have once in his cycles a relatively kind death. After some sort of, maybe-selflessness, out of all things! Hadn't he wished something like this as longs as the red grass has grown on Gallifrey? The first real wish the Master had had in his first run-through of his life's theme was to be cared for like this. The Doctor hadn't before, he just… _hadn't._

That stupid featherbed of hair was sticking all directions at once. The Doctor looked pathetic and ugly when he cried. It made the Master feel absolutely divine.

Oh, _now_ you care. And it hurts, doesn't it? The Doctor might have scored some points regenerating into a body that attracts every stupid creature with a mindset and aesthetic cravings of a certain type of preteen and up, but he's a sorry car accident when he pumps up the tears.

The Master loves it. _Rassilon_ , does he love it, he's tried to hurt the Doctor this much through all of his lives, and yet only now he's found the most effective way to do so. Then again, he should have know – the most effective way to brutalize a Time Lord is to force  _an end._

Maybe you've never been so depressed in your life, nor can relate to a self-destructive fantasy of killing yourself in a heat of passion. Gloriously salivating at the thought of everyone crying over you. You've probably never been there. It's an obscene thought to you, you wouldn't be so evil.

 _You_ certainly wouldn't want to kill yourself to cause as much pain as possible to everyone around you. Even if you've been suicidal, the thought of somebody _you love_ finding _your body_ has stopped you. You've thought of hopping into a bus, driving somewhere far, walking into a woods, climbing up a thick spruce tree and hanging yourself up there. Who could find you there? What are the changes of somebody taking cover under your tree and seeing the bottoms of your shoes?

But that's what you've thought, because you're a nice person. It has never crossed your mind to kill yourself as a revenge. Or as an ultimate last word statement. This is the secret, though: you don't even have to hate the person you want to do this. The Master didn't hate the Doctor. All he wanted was to say, __I_ told you so_ , look what _you_ made me do.

“Regenerate!” he screams. _Mm._ And what? Start again? Accept the fact that there's no keeping his attention? That he can cry over a loss, but not celebrate having. Just like in the old days.

The Master had once attempted something like this. Sure enough, it was also the Doctor's fault. It doesn't matter what kind of argument had caused it, it happened eons ago on Gallifrey, when they both were still taking the first earfuls of their theme music. Young infatuation. Intellectual challenge. It felt pointlessly juvenile now. The Master had asked for more and the Doctor didn't want to give it to him.

There was so many things to see, space to explore, he had explained. He argued, that it was not the time to tie yourself down with love so early on. He thought it could change, like his face would. Feelings can die, he said, and opportunities to leave are limited. The Doctor was so cruel, back then. It had felt so conflicting to be loved, as the Doctor claimed, but not cared for. Wanted, but not waited. Touched, but not craved. It still felt harsh.

The Master could well admit it that he made it all worse. He demanded attention, but didn't get it. He was certain of his feelings, but too impatient to allow them to wait. He felt neglected. The Doctor was more interested in his own fantasies to even miss him half the time. The Master could be sick or dying, and it wouldn't come into his stupid mind to ask how he was. And yet, he said he loved.

Just, you know. Not enough. Right now. Later. Maybe. Don't be such a drama hog. Why do you have to make into a scene, can't you _just, just, just, just_ chill?

After a one such argument they always had, one that had turned ugly and mutually abusive, the Master had loudly proclaimed he'll drown himself in a lake in the Gallifreyan outskirts. He had burst out with tears in his eyes, but rage beating in his mind. All he thought at the time was to find murderously dangerous place and await the Doctor to come to him to apologize. And then he planned to kill himself in front of him, just to spite him.

It had been an early spring. The lake was thinly frozen. The Master had waited, and waited, waited the Doctor to come. But he didn't come.

Right then! The Master had though, if he wants him to die, so be it! For some reason he had removed his overcape and left it on shore before he walked on the ice and just kicked the mushy ice in.

It's surprisingly hard to drown oneself, the Master had soon found out. And in the icy water, he suddenly thought of the horrifying possibility of regenerating and dying and regenerating again under the ice and how long it would take and how painful it would be. Needless to say, the survival instinct had kicked in. He dragged himself back on the stronger bit of ice and rolled to the shore. He had been cold. Shivering. Yet, the spring hadn't offed him with an immediate hypothermia either.

If he had worn the thick collared red cape, it would have dragged him to the bottom and we wouldn't be here. If he hadn't worn the cape at all, he wouldn't have had something to warm himself while he crawled to a house of a family elder. For three days he didn't see anybody. Nobody asked him questions either. That is what it really means not to be particularly important to anyone – even your suicide attempt is like an inconvenience no-one wants to talk about.

“I knew you wouldn't have the guts to do it”, the Doctor had said.

Well. He has the guts to do it _now._ And he's not wearing a cape, nothing to save him if him even if he changes his mind, because he's killing himself with _pure intent_ alone.

You haven't been this ill, haven't you? But the Master has never felt as cared for. The Doctor cries like he bleeds, it's great. You don't get it. You really don't. But it's what the Master wants and that's what he does. He drowns himself into the Doctor's arms, and it's just… a good theme to end.

 

**FIN**


End file.
